Nasopharyngitis
by garudyne
Summary: The Doctor falls sick - with the common cold, of all things.


He should have listened to his alien instincts in the first place, or at least succumbed to the sudden wibbly-wobbly feeling in his legs and lied down somewhere.

But still, it wasn't his fault. He never got sick, so when he suddenly keeled over in extreme nausea, on the floor of the TARDIS control room, he was more confused than giddy. Why was it affecting him so much? The cosmic 9-year-old man gripped one of the blinking controls on the console and lifted him up, his legs almost giving way again. Gingerly typing foreign, Gallifreyian words into the screen, he ran a full system scan on himself.

"Diagnosis: Nasopharyngitis, also known as the common cold. Origin: Sol 5 (Earth). Cure: unknown." the monitor had coolly informed him.

"What?" he muttered. That couldn't be right.

"Diagnosis: Nasopharyngitis, also known as th-" the computer had started again, before the Doctor had interrupted by turning it off. The... _common cold? _He quickly reminded himself that he never, ever, got sick, and even if he did, it was usually due to some really bad food (he had Amy to blame for that), but somehow this ailment got past his advanced defense system. A _human _ailment. That was.. beyond strange.

That was the last thing he ever thought of, before a blanket of exhaustion descended over him, the faint vworp-vworping of the TARDIS and the fading voice of a certain redhead following him into his sudden unconsciousness.

–

When he came to, he felt a nice coolness wipe over his forehead, and a familiar soft hum. The Doctor braced himself, expecting his head to _hurt, _after it connected to the hard hyperglass floor of his beloved time machine, but the pain was just a dull soreness at the back of his head. He wasn't on the cold ground, he was on something plush, but the softness supporting his head was warm... and _human?_

He opened his eyes, and met Amy's green ones, the silence between them seemingly long.

"You're a heavy sleeper, aren't you?" she asked, after what must have been thirty years.

"Mmnf-" was all he could manage, a strange, congested noise. The ginger thrusted a tissue against his nose and ordered him to blow, discarding it after he was done. "I mean, yeah."

"That was honestly the most disgusting nose-blowing I've seen in my life," she said, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards. "But then again, you've always been this disgusting."

The Doctor smiled and closed his eyes again, his whole body shuddering again. Amy wet the towel again and pressed it to the Doctor's forehead, shushing him in the process. He was shivering and sweating, and that meant.. no, Amy didn't know what it meant. She just knew he was sick.

She sighed.

When the Time Lord opened his eyes again, his head wasn't on Amy's lap anymore. His whole body was a tangle of limbs and blanket, the latter he didn't remember putting on his being. Amy must have done it. Sitting up, his vision swimming from the sudden movement, he tried to drink in his surroundings.

Plush sofa, equally plush carpet, big TV... Amy must've brought him here. He wondered how, but he couldn't produce an answer. He looked around again, his vision clearing. An hour or two must've passed since he slipped into a slumber last, meaning..

His train of thought derailed as the audible creak of a wooden door was heard, with his fiery-headed best friend stepping through, carrying a tray and what looked like a steaming bowl of soup.

"Did you wait long? I couldn't find the kitchen – the TARDIS likes to play with me whenever I'm walking through the corridors," her voice dripping with concern. "You should really ask her to stop being cheeky."

That last statement was light, and humoured. Kind.

"N-not really," he stammered, startled by his own voice, which squeezed out as a croak. "I just woke up, Amelia."

"You should stop worrying about me and worry about yourself," she scolded, albeit lightly, as she set the tray down on the table next to the couch. She had remembered that the Doctor only called her Amelia whenever he was worried for her safety, or worried about her in general.

"I always worry abo- ou-" the Doctor's words cut off by the sudden inhalation of air, his face contorting, half of it in dread of what was going to come, and the other in embarrassment, before a really loud _CHOO _exploded from his nose, leaving strings of snot hanging.

Amy couldn't help but laugh.

"Any idea what's wrong with you? I'd give my opinion but I'm not a nurse," the ginger stated, her mouth pressed into a thin line after. Something stirred in her memory at the word "nurse" but she ignored it.

"Nasopharyngitis," he started, thankful that the ailment didn't slow his brain down. "Nay-so-fa-rin-ji-tis. Amy. Or as you know, the common cold, never had a cold before, never thought I would! There isn't a known cure, which baffles me, surprisingly, but it should go away if I rest enough. What's in the bowl?"

"Soup."

"Oh, I hate soup. Soup is boring. It's just salty chicken water."

"It's good for you."

The Doctor looked at Amy, and then at the bowl, and then at Amy. He sighed, one of those rare sighs he sighed when he resigned to fate, and took the bowl in his hands. Apprehensively, he scooped up some soup and looked at it analytically, before putting it in his mouth. He could tell it was overseasoned, but he guessed that it was intentional, with Amy worrying that his congested system would muffle the taste. But it tasted good. It was good.

"...fine."

"I'm sorry, what?" Amy had looked up from the book she was reading, moving to sit next to the Doctor and cracking open a book while he was trying to interrogate the soup telepathically.

"It's fine. Good. Fine-good. I like it."

The girl smiled, and went back to reading. After a couple more hesitant spoonfuls, the Doctor wolfed down the whole thing, even threatening to eat the bowl itself. Amy had stopped reading, and was watching the Doctor in amused wonder.

"Have you ever... I don't know," Amy said, her words curious. "Have you ever had someone to look after you? Because you might be a 908 year old Time Lord.. but you _do _need someone to take care of you."

"Well.. sometimes," she could hear the slight unhappiness in his voice, as he remembered the last time he was taken care of like this. It was with Rose, and he had just regenerated. "But I'm always okay! I rarely fall sick, I'm the king of not getting sick!"

He hesitated, his face pulled as if he was in deep thought.

"No, that's not a cool name. Don't call me that."

The corner of Amy's eyes crinkled as she chuckled, a soft, low chuckle, shaking her head in the meantime. She went back to her book again, her mind lost between strings of words, as the Doctor sulked in the corner, obsessing over the fact that he called himself 'the king of not getting sick'.

Half an hour and 26 pages later, the Doctor suddenly sat bolt upright, his eyes widening in revelation, successfully scaring Amy half to death.

"What a-about the TARDIS? Who's flying her?! Did we land? Did I manage to land her somewhere before I fainted?" he babbled, his words stumbling over one another. He suddenly stood up, forgetting that he was weak, and collapsed again on the sofa.

"Oh for- Doctor, calm down! I managed to get her on autopilot. Console says we're drifting somewhere in Andromeda.. wherever that is."

The Doctor looked back at her, his expression sheepish. Of course Amy was quick enough to think of that. She always was, even as a kid. He.. felt like he could trust her. Not that he didn't.. but this made him trust her _more. _It was a nice feeling, having someone to rely on..

Amy sighed and looked at her best friend, and coaxed him over. He was reluctant at first, but scooted over from his side of the sofa anyway. Amy gestured for him to lie down on her lap again, and he did without a second thought. He suddenly became aware of his exhaustion after the back of his head met the softness of Amy's legs, and almost fell asleep there and then. There was a nagging feeling somewhere in the recesses of his mind, and that kept him awake for a bit longer.

His best friend had taken to tangling her hand in his hair, combing it, smoothing it out after his normally bouffant hairstyle had plastered itself on his forehead with sweat. She was humming again, that small, familiar hum she usually did when she was worried. It was calming, soothing. Just the feeling of him being there, on Amy's lap, with her hand running through his thick hair. It's nice, he hasn't felt this way in a long time. To feel protected.

"Amy.."

"Yeah?"

Amy never got an answer, for the Time Lord had already fallen asleep, his body wrapped in the duvet and his head tripling its weight on her lap. His breathing slowed down and evened out.

In about 13 hours, he would be the same bumbling genius-idiot, but for now he was the vulnerable little Time Lord ball in Amy's lap, the last thing that ran through his mind was that yes, he figured he could stop worrying about Amy for a bit.


End file.
